


Light Upon The Dark

by inkcharm



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angels, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Demons, Dragon Age Reverse Big Bang, Dragon Age Reverse Big Bang 2015, Fallen Angels, Heaven, Hell, Kirkwall (Dragon Age), M/M, Magic, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Slavery, Spirits, Vessels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 17:39:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5465153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkcharm/pseuds/inkcharm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sensation is a predator that catches him unaware. Nothing could have prepared him for the way it sinks its fangs into him, drags him down to feast upon this flesh he now occupies. A body that feels too tight to contain him, yet he is shackled within, and no matter how he struggles, this prison of bone and sinew won't give, no seams at which the skin could tear. Freedom is agony. Freedom has to be worth it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light Upon The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Dragon Age Reverse Big Bang 2015. 
> 
> Based on this lovely art by AllantieArt: http://allantieeart.tumblr.com/post/135527686365/this-is-my-contribution-to-the-dragon-age-reversed  
> Please give her all the love, for she deserves it!

Sensation is a predator that catches him unaware. Nothing could have prepared him for the way it sinks its fangs into him, drags him down to feast upon this flesh he now occupies. A body that feels too tight to contain him, yet he is shackled within, and no matter how he struggles, this prison of bone and sinew won't give, no seams at which the skin could tear.

 

He knows pain and endurance, yet not even being seared very nearly out of existence could have prepared him for the sheer agony of his entire being crushed together to fit into this oh so small shell, setting every nerve ablaze.

 

The path to freedom leads over a toll bridge, and he can feel every payment in the weight of his new body, blood in his mouth and pinpricks in the slender tips of his fingers.

 

There are cobblestones under the unfamiliar curve of his buttocks, thighs, calves, feet, and there is brick against his spine, his wings, the back of his head, and something insubstantial crowding into his ears and over his thoughts. Sound, he realizes. Sensation, sound… smell, too, ash and sulfur and life. Taste; the inside of his mouth, raw gums and bleeding, bitten cheek.

 

All the things he has not known until now slamming into him within seconds of his escape, and he dares not open his eyes just yet, not when he can still see the searing lights of the Gates through lids pressed tightly together.

 

Freedom is agony.

 

Freedom has to be worth it.

 

Time exists in this realm, but how much of it passes, he doesn't know. Eventually, the overload of sensation and impression fades to a dull background roar and ache, war drums subdued like distant thunder, and every real sound blends together into the static of the accompanying rain.

 

There's something wet on his cheeks when finally he opens his eyes, only barely flinching at the way two lashes stick together, loathe to part as he was loathe to part with all he'd ever known, too. Without much finesse he manipulates his vessel's muscles, limbs, raises a hand to wipe at the oversensitive skin beneath his burning eyes, blinks, and as this time around his lashes part more willingly, he sees that single reluctant one clinging to his finger tip, black on dark skin that has a glowing blue line traveling straight down towards his wrist.

 

His skin hasn't split apart, but to force an entity of light and energy into a vessel of flesh leaves scars, and all across his new body, his very essence can be seen shining through. A warning to lesser creatures; he is Heaven's Grace made flesh, and he will scorch them from existence. A beacon to those who will pursue him; a commodity on the run. The realization causes a new sensation, a clenching around his ribcage, as if it wasn't narrow enough just yet, and warm air rushes outwards, past chapped lips.

 

The lash disappears from his fingertips, but he doesn't notice, preoccupied by the gentle rush of breath over the minuscule swirls upon his fingertip, new like everything else.

 

There's a reason for the tightening of his ribcage, though, and despite the pain, he has to drag his mind back to its well practiced efficiency. His kind cannot die, but he knows better than most that they can be dragged back to the Host, and he has no intention of allowing that for himself. The pains and discomforts of the physical realm are already an improvement over the mindless obedience in the Host's cold and empty ranks, where a low status meant being nothing but a slave to those with more power, entire garrisons mere fuel to the beings poised above them, names assigned at creation treasured and clung to, lest they fade into nothing with the rest of their individuality.

 

Fenris.

 

That one is his. His in ways nothing else has ever been, including himself, including his mind.

 

He can now add freedom underneath to his name in order to begin a list of what he owns. It feels like a good start, hard fought for and earned.

 

Fenris blinks his stinging eyes against the brightness of the Gates he stumbled through, white light and pure energy his former realm of existence. Locked to so many, it has held him captive since the dawn of time. He doesn't know his age, because time hardly matters to a being of pure energies, and because no one of a rank as low as his can begin to estimate how often they may have been found lacking and put through re-education, the complete erasure of everything only to be set back to the start. At least once, to assume otherwise would be foolish. But perhaps he's existed in a thousand different ways that have all been erased for arbitrary reasons.

 

Stifling a groan that sits in his throat like something foreign lodged inside the tender construction of his flesh, Fenris pushes himself to his feet. It's difficult for a moment to balance the unfamiliar weight of his body with the stretch of broad white wings, but he makes due. He's been a foot soldier whenever he hasn't been someone's personal source of energy, sucked dry and left to flicker in and out of being. No, not just anyone’s… Danarius’. Fenris almost physically stumbles with how fast he has to reel back from the painful burn of memory. Still, no matter the unbearable hardship, he's never allowed himself to go out. After all, despite the misery of his existence and despite what little information has trickled down the various ranks of the Host, Fenris still believes in their Maker.

 

But because the Maker has abandoned his creation, Fenris has fled the only realm he could ever call home. Therefore he now turns his backs on the Gates of Heaven and walks; not the first angel to ever become an outcast, but certainly one of the few from the lowest ranks to make it out.

 

He's chosen his destination carefully. The City of Chains is lauded across the realms as neutral territory, but Fenris knows this is a very creative application of the term neutral. Heaven has long decided this territory isn't worth fighting over, a ruined city sitting in between the angels' realm and the border of Hell, clinging to the physical plain just so. The entire city hangs on by sheer force of will from its outcast inhabitants, or so the sayings go.

 

How much of that is true, Fenris couldn't begin to judge. He's studied the available information long before escape and freedom became concepts he learned to understand. Kept his mind sharp for Danarius to make use of.

 

That's in the past. The presence consists of grey stone rising at sharp angles. The air is thick with conflicting energies. It's a cesspool, and that's precisely why it attracts those with nowhere else to go. Angels whose wings were torn out and fused into the Gates to mark them irrevocably as fallen. Demons who refuse to partake in the ever brewing power games that make up Hell's fluid and constantly shifting social and political hierarchy. Spirits that have become stuck. Souls that have become lost; too dirty to be ground up in Heaven's fabrication of energy for the front lines, but not dirty enough to be woven into Hell's curses. There are even some rare, foolish mortals, hiding in this wretched city from whatever they believe is quite so easily dodged.

 

The sun is a pale circle behind clouds of filth and negativity. The City of Chains is not gentle on its inhabitants.

 

Fenris isn't sure whether his still intact wings make him stand out more, or the fact that his flesh lacks covering. There's a saying he knows that tends to be flung about in the mortal tongues, how those who beg can hardly choose what kindnesses they may receive. It bears a certain logic, and when Sebastian offered help, so tentative and full of doubt regarding his own conduct and purpose, Fenris hardly found himself in a position to make requests as to the body he'd be allowed to occupy.

 

Something slightly more durable might have been appropriate. He feels like his flesh has suffered cracks where he shines through, even though he knows that not to be the case. Their kind always shines through in some way, bright lines on dull skin, bright eyes in dull faces, bright auras in dull worlds, it's just that the angelic equivalent of a slave isn't granted the privilege of leaving Heaven, ever, and therefore has no practice occupying a body. Fenris hardly understands how to fold himself into the nooks and crannies of a body that seems at once to possess too many hard lines, yet feels so fragile and soft.

 

Still, he isn't approached. He's not unused to battle, and murder must be shining in his eyes as he stalks his ways through grimy streets, bare feet soon quite filthy, gait still of one not quite accustomed to walking.

 

It's tedious, but he does not feel inclined to test the durability of the wings on his back. Frail though it may appear, there is a heaviness to his flesh that he will have to learn to account for in his movements. This is not a plane of light and energy, where he could move without the burden of the physical. Out here, to attempt flight might be to shred his precious skin to pieces, and he only has the one. Sebastian is his only friend and ally, and now far beyond Fenris' own oh so limited power to reach. To enter Heaven once again in order to have Sebastian find him a new vessel would be madness he couldn't even excuse with the spiderweb of tears and holes re-education has left in his mind.

 

No, Fenris is on his own now.

 

The thought rattles him for but a moment. For as long as he can think, which might be an eternity or not all that long, but is all the time that’s been left in his mind, he has been connected to the Host through Danarius, his superior in Heaven's ranks. To be without the poison of his voice is a shock, and for a moment Fenris feels bereft, empty, and experiences an almost physical desire to run back, return to the Gate through which he tumbled.

 

No.

 

He stops in his tracks, widens his stance, bares his teeth. There's an animal instinct in the flesh, a flight or fight sort of thing, vicious and needy, and he decides then and there that whenever he feels like running back, like crawling into the familiar empty cold of Heaven under Danarius and his greed to rise in rank, he will instead rush forwards with his new hands curled into claws, and he will shred apart the part of him that longs for the simplicity of obedience.

 

His wings have not been torn away, but Fenris falls in ways his brethren in this city haven't – he doesn't become a creature of sin, but rather decides to embrace the animal that lurks within the physical shape. And whenever he wants to flee back to the familiar taste of poison that is his place in Heaven's ranks, he will push the balls of his tender feet against the rough cobblestones of the street he walks, and move forwards, ever forwards, be the animal he needs to be in order to partake in what mortals call a survival instinct.

 

He cannot submit any longer, cannot allow for his mind to be flayed open and pieced together in whatever way most benefits his immediate master, cannot be a blade to be pointed at the front lines nor fuel for Danarius to draw on in order to increase his own strength.

 

Fenris walks forwards, and if he leaves bloody footprints, so be it.

 

He steals the rags off a mortal no longer in need of them.

 

A name. Freedom. Clothes. The list grows, and while it's still uncomfortable to feel much of anything, Fenris allows the small swell of pleasure to grow within his chest. It warms him against the chill of darkness encroaching, the very faint light shining on the City of Chains rapidly turning its milky gaze away. No one blames it. A cesspool is a cesspool, and not one resident of the City of Chains would dare try and make it out to be beautiful.

 

The darkness brings forth the bottom of the barrel in a reliably familiar way, a truth universally proven over and over again in all places that have a concept of night and day. And while the difference is barely there for the City of Chains, going from murky twilight to pitch black is still enough to lure those who enjoy the cover of darkness.

 

Peddlers of sin, jugglers of bloody knives, entertainers of lost hopes.

 

Fenris is a light among the shadows, dark skin interwoven with the white-blue glow of his Grace. He's hidden his flesh behind the stolen rags, but the truth is he remains naked and without proper cover in the ways that count; this skin of his is not comfortable enough for him to wear in a manner more fit to hide his nature, as if the wings weren't giveaway enough.

 

Angels are light and energy. Angel feathers, angel blood, angel body parts of any sort, really, are a valuable black market commodity. Fenris doesn't know that the ethereal energy, his true self beneath his dark skin, changes every property of his vessel, makes it more than flesh, makes it something others will seek to harvest. He only thinks that he will need to hide himself much better, lest his superiors do come looking for him.

 

There is a certain discord of observation and resulting action between Fenris and the creatures he passes on his way through the back alleys to destinations unknown, as long as he can keep moving. He sees them, and decides that lowly demons with snouts and hooves are none of his concern despite how much he loathes their kin, an old enmity he has neither inclination nor reason to shake. They see him, and decide that feathers are best when plucked.

 

The clear misunderstanding in how the night will go for either of them is an annoyance to Fenris, at best. He is an individual for the first time in his existence, no brothers and sisters to shield or wound him. Freedom is a sweet thing with a bitter after taste. On his own, Fenris cannot afford to draw too much attention to himself, something which his very looks prevent to an extent. But to fight in the streets, to leave a trail of death anyone seeking to reclaim him for the Host could connect to him easily and pursue, that is a problem best not faced alone.

 

Yet alone is what he is, and the demons, while weak and crippled from their own power struggles, do possess the ability to make flames lick at his skin, or curses wrap around his limbs, of which he still feels there are too many.

 

The black tendrils of a curse are slashed apart by a flash of blue-tinged white. The demons flinch away, and gape when they blink the night blindness from their beady black eyes. Fenris doesn't wait for them to adjust. He twirls the greatsword in his hand, surprised at how easily he can wield it now that it’s not bound to Heaven's armory, just a broken chain dangling from the hilt as a permanent reminder of where he and the blade come from. The blade is a translucent blue, and easily as long as Fenris' flesh stands tall.

 

“You better come with us all quiet like, bird,” snarls a demon. The sound grates on Fenris' ears, both in the cadence of the creature’s voice and in the unfamiliar weight of the common tongue spoken in the physical realms.

 

Nuisances are best disposed of, and the quicker they die, the sooner he can start moving once again.

 

“I decline.” The raspy voice is unfamiliar to him. It tickles at the insides of his throat, slips over his tongue and tumbles from his lips. There's a snarl in it that Fenris hasn't put there on purpose, but welcomes all the same. He sounds like something that should make you flinch and reconsider your plan of attack.

 

_Good._

 

If he is to pay the price for the toll bridge to freedom in blood, it may as well not just be his own. They leave him little choice now. Demons of lower ranks, he knows, make it a business to corrupt mortals in order to grab enough power to become relevant amongst their peers, and while he can't condemn the creatures for stealing souls away from a Heaven not as pure as it’s supposed to be, he certainly can condemn them for being no better than that either.

 

It is not so different to fight with a body, made easy as his blade is an extension of his very being, the Grace beneath his paper thin skin given brief shape as long as he needs it. To wield it is to dance once more, a particle of light carving itself a path through the shadows to illuminate the carnage of a battle well fought; over before it's begun.

 

The demons dissolve into smoke and charred remains.

 

Blood is singing in Fenris' ears, and distracts him so he doesn't hear the demon creeping up from behind until it roars in pain. He whirls around and nearly jumps back, wings thrown wide for balance and to make himself look larger. Animal instincts. Fenris bares his teeth.

 

There's another demon standing further down a narrow alley to the side. Lightning still crackles between his fingertips. Fenris can just make out the subtle movements of the demon's tail and leathery wings. Whether he merely took out the competition or acted on a different whim remains to be seen, and so Fenris remains still but weary. To keep moving, or to have another battle on his hand - this one much less easily walked away from unscathed at that.

 

The demon steps closer, hands raised in a placating gesture. Fenris lowers his sword, but doesn't let it dissipate. He knows better than to trust a demon, especially one with such obviously powerful magic. The angel can feel the hairs at the back of his neck stand up as his mind, turned traitor by the Host, flits back to Danarius almost immediately, the feeling of his own Grace drained to fuel another's power.

 

The demon doesn't seem perturbed by the aggression in Fenris' stance. “So. You're quite the impressive sight.”

 

Fenris would beg to differ. He walks in stolen rags, with the stiffness of one not used to his own physical shape. The demon, by contrast, wears silks around his waist, and bits of gold in his long hair. Fenris snorts. He has no time for fools, though he doubts this one would be as easily killed as the others. This one, after all, has a very obvious sort of power, if the way he's utterly unperturbed by Fenris is any indication of that. “I suppose.”

 

“You could try not to glow and wave around your Grace like that, of course.” And what would a demon know of angels? Fenris takes half a step back, but the demon merely stops in his own tracks and raises his hands. “Easy. New here, aren't you? You're not the only one of your kind in this town. Tell you what. I have business beneath the Hanged Men. I shall be on my merry way, and if some man with angelic features happens to be trailing me, why, that wouldn't be the strangest thing to happen to me. At the very least you'd be in an area patrolled by the City Guard.”

 

Another self-styled neutral faction, Fenris thinks he recalls. Military that wishes to protect rather than destroy, which is an odd concept to him to begin with. Still… he does wish to avoid leaving a trail of charred demon bodies for someone else to follow. This demon walks away from him, and since one direction forwards is as good to him as another currently, Fenris decides that perhaps the demon's direction might not be the worst place to start. The sword slips out of the physical realm to become a part of himself once again, and if the demon glances over his shoulder with a wink, Fenris makes it a point not to notice. He does so by ducking his head and trying not to feel the heat in his cheeks.  

 

Fires are lit beneath the Hanged Men. They are quite literally hanged creatures, though whether they were men or not is more than questionable. Some may very well yet be alive, or else the non-existent breeze still manages to stir them occasionally. They are dangling from rope strung around a long wooden beam, and just beneath their feet, a colorful roof of cloth has been set up to protect those who wish to drink and fuck and gamble beneath it.

 

Fenris supposes the setup would have its charm without the very literal name givers of this place in such direct view. His gaze directed upwards, he nearly walks into the demon when he stops, having drifted much closer than he initially meant to. For practical reasons – the creature did kill one of its own kind, saving Fenris from a bothersome attack from behind, and perhaps, he ponders, he owes the demon a little. As soon as he finds out how to pay him back, Fenris intends to rid himself of this debt.

 

“Hawke.”

 

Fenris blinks. “What?”

 

The demon tugs at his own beard and tries to look kind. It's ruined by the way his lips want to slide into what Fenris assumes would be defined as a smug sort of smirk. Fenris dislikes him immensely. Truly. “Hawke. That's my name. Or what you can call me, at any rate.” Demons are bound by names, and guard their true ones jealously. Hawke holds out a hand.

 

Fenris glances at it for a while without blinking. If he taps into his Grace, he thinks he can see the dark red swirl around Hawke's physical shape. Demons aren't unlike angels in that respect, at least. Not physical in their form by design, but choice. Fenris doesn't take the offered hand, but he offers his name: “Fenris.” It's his, so he can share it. He's a person now, not just a tool, an extension of the Host.

 

Hawke drops his hand. “Fair enough. Fenris, then.” A name, and a name that’s not true. Funny, almost.

 

“You helped me, earlier. It was unnecessary. Still, I will find a way to repay you.”

 

Something sinister gleams in the demon's golden eyes, and Fenris has to wonder if that offer was wise to make. But when Hawke grins, it splits his face in half in a good way. He's a feral thing, bare-chested with his beard and long, dark hair. His tail twitches restlessly. “I'll warn you, Fenris. Don't offer anyone in this city anything. Not everyone who is as roguishly handsome as I am is also as good-hearted.” He leads the way to a barrel that apparently serves as a slightly lopsided table. Several people of various different races and levels of alive clap him on the back as he passes, or cheer his name. Fenris gets looked at, but gazes slip away when it's obvious he's with Hawke. Interesting.

 

“You're a demon. I must protest the notion of you possessing a good heart.”

 

Hawke laughs. “Protest all you must, but this is the City of Chains. I'm as far away from all of Hell’s infighting as I can get for a reason. Sure, there's power-hungry assholes here, too. But I came here to get away from the constant battles against the Blight eating up the Deep Roads, and the constant worry that someone poisoned my food in order to climb one rung higher on the infinite ladder to the throne.” A shrug. Hawke looks relaxed. “I'm gonna hazard a guess: You're not here on heavenly business yourself.”

 

No, the City of Chains is supposedly neutral territory. Heaven has little business here these days. It's a very educated guess, and Fenris can't help but remind himself that this demon is intelligent as well as reasonably powerful. “I'm not.”

 

“Not kicked out, either. You still have those very lovely wings of yours.”

 

A sound escapes Fenris like an unruly animal struggling against the trap. Hawke looks surprised, then repeats the sound, and _oh_. It's a _chuckle_. Fenris is deeply embarrassed, but no one else notices. Finally, he clears his throat, trying to recover some of his dignity. “What kind of demon you are remains to be seen. I'm here of my own free will.”

 

Hawke whistles, low and obviously impressed. Angels aren't supposed to have free will. There is a clear chain of command that travels down from those who stand in for the Maker in His place of power, and every angel is supposed to do little except obey. Fenris scowls as his thoughts wander back to re-education. But Hawke will not share his full name for good reason, and Fenris won't divulge the secrets of the Host for the same good reasons.

 

“So you're expecting company.”

 

Fenris nods. To lie about that would be foolish, as it would very obviously be untrue. Why dance around the issue they both know to be true? Hawke's made a statement, not pitched a question. Fenris is a runaway, and not the most subtle one at that. Let them come.  

 

The demon nods slowly, then suddenly leans closer with a grin. Fenris manages to only lean back very slightly. His skin still prickles with pain at every sensation, and proximity does little to make him more at ease. Hawke doesn't seem to notice. He appears gleeful, which Fenris finds equal parts disquieting and interesting. “Let me introduce you to a few people. See, I'm in the City of Chains to do right by myself and those I consider mine.” There's a possessive glint to his eyes. If his manipulated memories serve, Fenris recalls that demons do not build their families upon blood relation, though unlike angels they do breed. It is more common for demons to pick and choose their families, forming tight-knit packs. Heaven’s Garrisons serve the same purpose, except somewhere along the line Heaven had opted for strict hierarchies and total, merciless control. Hawke looks around and waves at someone, obviously meaning to make those introductions in the near future. “You say you owe me something. Here's my offer. Run a few jobs with us. We bring in bounties, we dig through ruins for old artifacts. You're an angel with a giant sword, pun only mildly intended, and I could use another good front line fighter for a few jobs I have lined up. You could use the coin and the reputation to make your own mark in this city. And as long as you run with us, you're one of mine. That means protection, no questions asked.”

 

No questions asked is a tempting offer. Still, Fenris doesn't agree immediately, and Hawke turns away, obviously not expecting an immediate answer. He's a strange man, a strange demon. The deal he proposes is more than fair, and pretty equally beneficial to both of them. Fenris isn't sure he can afford to walk away from it.

 

Approximately half an hour later, he wishes desperately to run away from it, as he meets Hawke's… associates, for lack of a more colorful word.

 

Varric is a curious kind of spirit, and Fenris wonders for what reason he's gotten lost and found his way here. The presence of a Chronicler is in itself not a strange thing regardless of realm. They drift through everywhere, collecting knowledge and information, with no one the wiser as to how and where it actually _is_ collected and kept. Varric rejects that less solid state of being with a sharp bark of laughter that's somehow full of contempt. He wants to experience what he collects, and seems to be in it not for the higher pursuit of knowledge and the noble task of documenting the history of events for future generations. Rather he makes a business out of it, and a rather vulgar one at that. He seems to have latched onto Hawke for reasons Fenris fails to see just yet. Whatever jobs the demons embark upon must be interesting though, in order to consistently keep such a particular spirit's interest. They're supposed to be flighty and disconnected. Between Hawke and Varric, though, there is a very obviously grounding connection. For some reason the way they insult one another is laced with a fondness that does strange things to the cavern below Fenris' ribcage. He… wonders. Varric himself is pleasant enough, as these things go. He looks at Fenris as though he's uncovering the next big pool of storytelling, but doesn't press the issue… yet. According to Hawke, the Chronicler knows everyone in the City of Chains worth knowing, and then some. So this is the source of lucrative work for the demon's group of people.

 

Isabela is a demon, and wishes to pluck Fenris' eyes from their sockets. Somehow, she's still among those in this groups he's feeling more comfortable with. She's an hourglass, and just like an hourglass she occasionally flips herself and trickles in the opposite direction. Perhaps a better way to describe her would be waves lapping at the shore, rushing in and pulling out. She's a storm waiting to happen, but quick with the blades growing along her forearms, and quicker with her clever claws when someone is too careless with their purse. If Hawke's eyes are amber, hers are the color of old gold. It matches the metal she has attached to her body, molded directly unto her dark skin in some places, and stuck through her flesh in others. She wraps her tail around Fenris' thigh as they talk. He snarls at her, but she makes no move to let him go. Since she doesn't move closer, he supposes he can accept his predicament for a while. Isabela calls herself many things – a demon of lust one minute, a demon of all things shiny the next, defender of thieves, of virgins raped and ruined, a deity of sin. Fenris doubts he will get a clear answer out of her. She in turn seems more interested in knowing what kind of angel he is. No kind, he tells her, and moves on to the next person, missing the brief hint of sadness in her eyes, for perhaps she remembers what it is like to be a creature of nothing.

 

Merrill nearly causes Fenris to recoil in disgust. There are deep black lines etched into her skin, and by the static energy he immediately feels between them, he can tell that those lines used to be where her Grace shone through her skin. Peeking over her shoulders are the ruined stumps of what once where wings. He's never looked carefully at the Gates, but he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that hers have been fused into its mystical energies. The sight is sickening, and made even worse when he looks further down to see the deep lacerations in her arms. Where Isabela sports blades, Merrill has openly bleeding wounds. She seems unperturbed, and no one else is bothered by the blood she gets onto them. Fenris knows what that means, though. She uses her own blood to fuel the magic she lost when her Grace flickered away to the smallest flame that keeps her alive, if one can use such a word about angels. She still exists, but she can't draw power from her own core, Fallen as she is. Instead of accepting her state as a crippled shell wandering the physical realms, she's using her blood in order to mimic what she's lost. It's sickening, and it reminds Fenris painfully of the way Danarius pulled Fenris' own essense into himself, to feed on his subject's strength and become stronger in return. She tries to be sweet and friendly, and if his obvious dislike for everything she is bothers her, she certainly fails to show it.

 

“There are more people,” Hawke admits then. “We have a healer. Not that any of us is particularly mortal, but there's still something to be said for not walking around with your arm half torn off and just dangling there like a gross accessory. I'll take you to his clinic later. His name is Anders. And then there's Aveline. She's our token human, because as you can tell, I'm very much into diversity. Tough as nails for a mortal, though. She holds her own in our merry band of misfits, so you can imagine the kind of woman she is.”

 

Fenris imagines a woman who makes very poor life choices.

 

“It's going to be nice, having another angel around. Most of our kind who live here are very lost, and not very talkative,” Merrill muses. She smiles at Fenris a lot, and it makes him scowl. She is Fallen, she uses her blood for power, and she sees him only for the wings folded against his back.

 

The line between Fenris' brows deepens. “You are no angel. We are kin no longer. You've fallen from Grace.”

 

The words are harsh, and something flickers in her wide eyes, but Merrill's smile doesn't falter. “You've run away. The City of Chains can be very confusing. It's large and the streets twists and turn. If you have questions, I can try to answer. I'll even show you this thing the humans like to drink. It's hot leaf water, and really nice.”

 

Isabela chuckles. It's like someone pulls dark velvet over the harsh angles of tension between the angels. “You find everything nice. And everyone.”

 

Feeling Fenris' irritation, Hawke pushes away from the barrel. He murmurs something in Varric's ear, then reaches out to touch Fenris' shoulder. The angel smoothly steps away from the group and Hawke's hand alike. The demon raises an eyebrow, but doesn't comment. As observed earlier, he's intelligent enough. “Come on. I'll introduce you to Anders now. Tomorrow we're heading for a smuggler's cove by the coast; you'll meet Aveline then. It's gonna be you, me, her and Varric. A light sort of job.”

 

Fenris walks with Hawke, trying not to ponder the fact that he's, somehow, officially running with demons and spirits and fallen angels now. And a mortal, whom he can't see surviving this sort of company for even her short life span. “I'm an angel, Hawke. Not a flower maiden.”

 

The demon laughs. It's a rich sound. Fenris wants to hate it, and fails. He dislikes demons. He really does.

 

“That's the spirit. Still. Let's get used to one another with something small first. Would be a shame if we went to the Deep Roads and you got your handsome face bitten off. I'm just kidding. Probably.”

 

He winks again. Hawke is utterly infuriating. Fenris... doesn't hate it, and that just makes him even more angry. After the day he's had, Fenris is consequently not in the most agreeable mood when they arrive at the clinic. Hawke attempts to joke around, and Fenris attempts to not laugh. They both only manage partial successes.

 

The clinic is in a part of the City of Chains that manages to be even more desolate than the rest. Fenris has no particular feelings about settling down in this large scale ruin. It's a place, and it's not Heaven. That has to be enough, somehow. In this particular corner of the City of Chaisn and its various ruins, the healer is offering his services for free to those in need, which as it turns out is almost everyone who has settled into this city. Even those who aren’t mortal can use these kinds of services. Hawke has garnered just about enough reputation and money that he's not dependent on charities. “I still come here regularly to annoy Anders. It's highly entertaining.”

 

Fenris will have to take Hawke's word for it, although once they enter the building, he immediately wishes he'd thought to question the demon's judgment a lot more. This, this bastardization of the laws of nature and magic is precisely why he loathes demons. His Graces flares instinctively, painfully burning beneath his skin. Even the rags he took earlier are painful upon the oversensitive flesh now, but Fenris hardly notices. He focuses on the abomination sitting in the healer's clinic.

 

It's something that's not quite angel, nor quite demon. The best guess Fenris can venture is that somehow, an angel managed to squeeze itself into the body of a demonic entity, though even that doesn't quite cover the seamless blend between the very conflicting energies he can feel rolling off the creature.

 

“ _Abomination_ ” he snarls.

 

The creature leaps to its feet. The telltale aura of faintest smoke becomes almost invisible to Fenris' eyes when the abomination glows, something that could be Grace shining through its skin almost in the way his own does. Except on this horrible creature, the cracks run ragged and random. They look like damage, like scars, not like the small affected areas some powerful angels can manage, nor like the artful lines and swirls most common angels like Merrill and Fenris sport on their bodies or faces in some fashion or another. This abomination shouldn't exist.

 

Hawke moves in between them, proving himself quite mad once and for all.

 

“Easy, easy. We're all friends here!”

 

Fenris almost laughs in his face, a strangely light sensation in his chest, the statement is just that ridiculous. Friends? With a creature like that, something that shouldn't even exist and can only be fixed by being put down? And then it speaks.

 

“Hawke, remove that from our clinic.”

 

There are two voices in the air when it speaks, as if the creature's dual nature makes it impossible for its voice to stay on just one plane of existence. The echo of celestial bells and crackling pits of hell is there in its words along with a normal, physical kind of voice.

 

Everything in Fenris is screaming to remove this abomination from existence. But Hawke reaches out to him now, so he just backs away. He can't afford to hack his sword into the one ally he for some reason managed to acquire, just because his body is too tight and painful for him to exist in.

 

Fenris puts more distance between himself and the abomination. “Hawke, what _is_ that?”

 

“Anders. That is Anders.” Explaining approximately nothing. “Anders, please meet Fenris. I found him.”

 

That is definitely the kind of statement he should take more offense at, having paid the heavy price for freedom in order to belong to no one, but he's distracted by how it still feels as though his limbs are splitting in two.

 

Anders looks begrudgingly concerned. “Sloppy. Someone didn't take proper care when putting him in that body. Not done by someone who knew what they're doing. Pity you make such rabid friends, Hawke. I'll still help him with that pain, if you insist on keeping him.”

 

Fenris bites down on his tongue to stifle the response trying to be howled into the night. He will not be kept. The days in which he belonged to anyone are over, and behind him. “I do not require your help,” he spits instead.

 

Hawke hangs his head a little under Anders' withering stare. They should be used to this by now, truly. Angels and demons are enemies of old, and especially those who have served on either side's battlefields have deep-seated prejudices. To see a being that's partially both is… disconcerting, to say the least. It's worried Hawke in the beginning of their acquaintance, although by now he's gotten mostly used to Anders'… unique condition. The healer is damned useful, after all, and not at all prone to violent murder. Hawke tells Fenris as much, and hopes that they'll find common ground. Unlike Merrill, Fenris is not a fallen angel, has not been thrown out of Heaven's inner sanctums. He's left, and although the angels guard most of their secrets as jealously as demons do, it's easy to glean from what information he does have that there are few angels in Heaven who hold the majority of power, much to the detriment of those beneath them.

 

It's almost comforting to know that Heaven is just as bad as any other realm. If not worse, for the veneer of perfection they like to show the world. They've always struck Hawke as lifeless and cold. At least until they leave Heaven – one way or another.

 

In that regard, Fenris' open anger and disgust and pain are likely good things. Well, in the long run. If he sticks around for the long run. Hawke has ideas and plans, but the implementation tends to be where his skills fail him.

 

At any rate. “Fenris, Anders is an ally. He's one of _mine_ , like I hope you might become. Protection, no questions asked, remember?”

 

“I'm going to walk outside now,” Fenris gripes, and proceeds to do just that. It’s a small victory.

 

Nephilim have been eradicated centuries ago according to the books. Or perhaps Fenris was even there, part of the forces sent to carry out the purge, and simply can't recall. It's always a possibility. The half angel, half human creatures have been outlawed by Heaven's highest authorities. To see a creature so similar to the forbidden half-bloods is jarring. Perhaps not quite called for. But Fenris is in pain, and has no intentions of bowing to something like this Anders, or even Merrill, and grovel for forgiveness.

 

Hawke follows him after a while, but doesn't attempt touch or conversation. They walk through the noisy streets for a while, hoping to find a suitable location for Fenris to bed himself. There are more than enough empty buildings in this ruined city, and yet… and yet Fenris is reluctant to stop at one.

 

After a while, he surprises them both by offering: “A slave. I was practically a slave.”

 

Hawke slows down, until Fenris is forced to either walk alone, or stop with him in front of a small building that's derelict, but not quite beyond use. “Then we'll tear apart any angel coming after you.”

 

 _Oh_.

 

Somehow, just like that, his fate is sealed. Fenris stops walking. Stops moving away towards an unknown destination. Hawke grins and holds out his hand again. Fenris turns away. Offers a “See you tomorrow, Hawke” over his shoulder.

 

They both leave ever so slightly smiling.

 

Fenris makes himself comfortable, as much as he can. As an angel, he doesn't require sleep, but his body needs the rest. Angelic vessels were once mortals whose souls passed into Heaven's care. The man whose skin Fenris is lighting up with his Grace could have been anything and anyone who knows how long ago. He had a name, and likely a story or two to tell. Fenris is still trying to become someone. He owns nothing but his name and his freedom and the rags he wears.

 

And perhaps, it seems, the allegiance of a demon on the rise, though whether that allegiance will prove asset or hindrance considering the other company attached to the  deal remains to be seen.

 

Still Fenris finds himself joining the others the following morning.

 

Aveline becomes his favorite instantly when she looks at him, at the white lines faintly glowing in his skin, and the massive white wings, and only says: “I see.” As though his presence requires no more explanation than that. He still maintains that her involvement with the group is a poor life choice, and experiences his first thrill of satisfaction when she agrees with that assessment. “I'm Captain of the City Guard. Hawke helped me reach this place to begin with, so I'm trying to curb his enthusiasm for crime and shady business. It feels like the least I can do.” She shrugs. Fenris thinks he may actually enjoy combat by her side, despite the pain he’s almost constantly in.

 

Hawke pouts. “You could keep us out of the cells more often, you know.”

 

Aveline tells him to get out, and when once again Hawke laughs, Fenris falters only slightly. The demon notices. Because of course he does.

 

Killing smugglers, at least, is enjoyable work. To have magic washing over him in battle is not unfamiliar from his servitude in Heaven's ranks, even if the associated memories, what little are left of that time, prove to still be unpleasant. Varric has a crossbow he's much too affectionate and deadly with, and Aveline's shield is a delight. She's rather impressive for a human. Fenris can admit that he may have been wrong about her.

 

Blood spatters them, and by the time Fenris drives his ethereal blade into the ring leader's neck he barely feels the pain of his body anymore, preoccupied with the rhythm of battle. It feels like purpose. It feels like moving forwards without actually having to cut open the soles of his feet on the rough cobblestones. It feels, perhaps, even a little as though he doesn't wish to return to Danarius anymore.

 

They loot the cavern, though Aveline insists – has to, really – that some crates be left for her and her Guards to discover, as it were. Garrett finds this a fair price to pay for her allegiance, and the continued protection of the city at large, which just happens to house those few people he actually cares about. It's truly an arrangement in which he can only win. The rest of what they find is divided among them. Garrett tosses two blankets and a bottle of wine towards Fenris, then shows him the actual valuables. Varric estimates what it's all worth, and will distribute it all over his various contacts in the City of Chains. Fenris will receive his share under the Hanged Men in a few nights' time.

 

It doesn't take long to fall into a rhythm that has little to do with battle, and everything to do with becoming a person and living a life. Merrill is delighted with every bit of progress Fenris makes. The friendliest thing he can do for her is nod, but not answer. That, in turn, makes Hawke happy. That makes Anders unhappy, if only because Fenris and Anders have an uneasy truce, but can't be kept from snarling bloody murder at one another whenever they find themselves part of the same conversation.

 

Within a few short weeks of his arrival, Fenris has accumulated possessions, too. The blankets, a purse filled with coins. Clothes that sport no holes. The empty bottle of wine from the smuggler's cave, generously shared with Hawke, who has an interest in Fenris that seems oddly anchored in their flesh, something Fenris isn't yet sure he understands. He cannot deny the warmth Hawke brings that has very little to do with the burn of Grace in his limbs. He loathes demons, he does, and has no love for magic, but… but… well. Hawke is… a person before he is a demon. Much like Fenris is still learning to be a person before he is an angel.

 

Fenris is asked along on nearly every job. It only makes sense. Aveline has other duties to attend to, and Isabela, despite all her jokes to the contrary, isn't that well equipped to handle the attention of several battle-hardened men, women or creatures at once.

 

There is much to be learned, too, and although Fenris doesn't comment on it, he soaks the knowledge up. It's delightful to think that what he learns here and now will not be taken from him.

 

Beneath the colorful fabric that forms a roof under the Hanged Men, Fenris learns to play cards. Hawke shamelessly uses every opportunity to lean close in order to explain something to him. Isabela protests their proximity, though Fenris suspects it's a tease that has little to do with sympathy for the stabs of pain unsolicited touch still causes him. Not that he could ever mention it. Isabela is the demon of many things, but certainly not of compassion, and she'd stop the moment he pointed it out to her.

 

Under Hawke’s tutelage, Fenris learns to read as well, language being something angels know but never learn. The crude symbols on documents mean very little to him, though there isn’t a language in existence he doesn’t know intimately. With every passing day and every physical sensation he manages not to flinch at, Fenris feels like freedom must definitely be worth its price.

 

His night's rest is disturbed less than a handful of months into his fredom in Kirkwall, when an angel appears in the doorway of the mansion Fenris occupies. His guard isn’t down; this is an attack he’s been expecting, those whose leash he slipped coming back to reclaim what they consider their rightful property. The blade is in his hands before he can think, and on the upswing before he can recognize the bright blue Grace shining only through the angel's eyes.

 

“Sebastian?”

 

“Peace, friend. I come for you, but not to take you back.” His movements are stiff. It's been centuries since Sebastian had the need to take a body. Weariness gives way to delight, because regardless of their difference in rank, Fenris considers Sebastian a friend, and vice versa. The higher ranking angel has struggles of his own he needs to hide from his superiors, doubts that have crept into his dutiful mind; questions about whether he should serve peacefully, or rally for a revolution that could ruin him, or uproot Heaven and return it to way Sebastian thinks the Maker intended it to be, a place of warm light and soothing energy. Sebastian is a being in eternal conflict over the paths which he may choose when he’s not a creature made for choosing, and while Fenris could never hope to offer guidance, he could offer a relationship of little judgement. Sebastian, in turn, has given Fenris the belief that it’s alright to stand on his own feet, and has selflessly aided in shoving the low ranking angel into a vessel so he may escape. To see Sebastian once again, despite the layers of flesh that hide their true selves, is… it aches in Fenris’ chest, but this is a pain he doesn’t mind.

 

Soon enough, however, delight fades into dread. Sebastian's presence is appreciated, but… it does not bode well for Fenris' immediate future. “Danarius has sent Hadriana after you,” are the words that make the ground beneath Fenris’ feet feel no longer solid. “I came to warn you. To give you a head start. She knows where you are and who you associate with, Fenris. Run, my friend, and live.”

 

Except it is the opposite of what he swore to himself, the opposite of what he wishes. The path of subtle resistance may be right for Sebastian, but it feels like failure to Fenris. He swore to himself not to go back, to fight the siren song of obedience with every animal instinct his freedom grants him. Run he will, but only towards the danger, not away from it. The toll bridge to freedom demands a price in blood, and if Fenris is unwilling to spill his own, then someone else will have to make the payment. Such things can not be avoided. If Hadriana wishes to offer herself… so be it.

 

Hawke is by his side before Fenris can explain, before he can offer a single word. The look in the angel’s eyes is enough. Protection without question. Fenris’ world only tilts further for seeing the sincerity of that promise proven so easily and readily. Hawke stands with him.

 

Hadriana is not within the city itself. She’s scouring the outskirts, as if she detests entering the City of Chains. Sebastian’s continued aid gives Fenris the chance to hunt, rather than be hunted. He is dirty, animalistic, _free_.

 

They find her in what once was a cathedral to the Maker. Only its skeleton remains, rotten wood and stone pillars bending inwards like cracked ribs. Standing at the altar, Hadriana has made herself the beating heart. Blue pulses on her cheek bones and the palms of her hands. Ever brighter for each guard she has with her, each angel she can suck dry.

 

She flings mockery at Fenris as they engage, for his ragged appearance, his pitiful light not considered a match to her radiance, for the company he keeps and the mistakes he’s made, the punishments they’ll earn him. But Heaven is peace, she claims, Heaven is mercy. He will earn his forgiveness by forgetting his betrayal, as is his place.

 

Fenris rages against the possibility, the memories, both the ones he still has and the ones plucked from his mind, vast and emptier than it should be of experience and knowledge and _past_. He lets his huge blade slip into his hand smoothly. The ethereal chain dangles low over the ground. A weapon made out of himself. A memory, a threat, a reminder. Motivation.

 

The fight is long and brutal. Fenris’ skin goes numb under the assault of magic and battle wounds, and for a while he’s not sure whether he still exists as a person, or as an imprint left behind by energy dissipating. Perhaps Hadriana has eradicated him. Perhaps he is no more.

 

Feeling shocks back into Fenris when Hadriana unleashes her fury upon Hawke. The demon cries out with a voice that’s both here and deep down below, a bellow of pain and fury.

 

Hadriana cackles. “Danarius is displeased, little angel. It’s time to fall back in line.” And then her mouth falls open and her eyes widen, because to focus on Hawke has left her wide open for Fenris to descend upon her, propelled forwards by his wings and his Grace and his fury. She’s Danarius’ creature and revels in her place, in what little power it gives her over too many others who are just like Fenris, existences for her to use. He deals her one blow, and another, and she sinks to her knees like a puppet with its strings cut. “Mercy!” she cries, blood on her lips and fear in her eyes. Fenris wonders if her wounds are more painful than everything else she has to feel here, on this plane of existence, in this prison of flesh.

 

Mercy.

 

“Yes,” Fenris says.

 

He brings his blade down in a swift arc, drives it into Hadriana with speed and accuracy. Lets her die swiftly, because that is mercy, if not forgiveness.

 

Angels cannot die, or that is what they wish everyone else to know. Hawke bears witness to the fact that angels can kill angels. It's the most common reason for them to fall. It's the worst crime an angel can commit in the eyes of Heaven.

 

Hawke is bleeding.

 

Hadriana came, and brought with her a danger not only to Fenris, but to those he associates with. His… allies. Friends is too strong a term, surely. Allies tug less strongly on his heart.

 

Hawke grimaces. There’s a spatter of blood smeared across his nose. Burns along his abdomen. How easily Hadriana could have erased everything about him, just burnt him from existence. Something clenches in Fenris when Hawke merely smiles, dismissive of his wounds. “Protection, no questions asked. Remember?” Perhaps for the first time, Fenris understands how the deal really works, whether Hawke intended that or not. Protection. No questions asked. Fenris has something to protect here, too. Not everything belongs to Hawke alone, because Hawke… Hawke has to be someone’s to protect, too.

 

Fenris' weapon disappears and he slides down the wall, exhausted. Right back where he started, albeit against a different wall, with blood in his mouth. He bit the same spot on his cheek. He can feel cobble stones beneath his buttocks and calves and feet, and brick behind his back, wings and head. The world is pressing in on him with sound and light and pain, and it's all too much, too fast, too exhausting.

 

“Come on.”

 

A hand hovers in front of him. Fenris thinks of his sad bundle of possessions, grown so large in his time here, but with so much more room to grow. He looks at Hawke's hand, offered once again as it was the night Hawke proposed the deal. Danarius will certainly come, and Fenris has something to lose. But he once swore himself to become animal, to fight back and dig his feet into the cobble stones until they bleed. Perhaps he can live with Danarius looming, as long as he knows he will not face him alone.

 

“You realize how sinful all of this is. We’re in a cathedral to the Maker.”

 

Hawke laughs, and Fenris feels queasy. It's not unpleasant. “Yeah. And unless I'm mistaken, your newfound freedom allows you to explore whether you're alright with that or not.”

 

Fenris lets those words hang between them for a while. Remembers Hawke's words – how he was looking to carve a good life out for himself and _his_. Perhaps…

 

Fenris reaches upwards and slips his hand into Hawke's.

 

“Deal,” Fenris says, and means: _I am yours._

  


 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> Kudos, comments and feedback are always appreciated.


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